The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1887-11-24
MISS TRUDY'S REASONS
BY HARRIET PRESCOTT spoFFoRD.
Author of "a Lost Identity" "a Dying
Nerve" Etc.


she had been summoned by Thanksgiving
beggar, having run there at once, with a
pie out of the batch she always baked to
give away on Thanksgiving. She did not
know who the person was, but the person
evidently knew her, and said, THANK you,
Miss Trudy. This pie gives both of us rea-
son for thanksgiving; me that I've get it;
you that you can give itn
'Humph," said Miss Trudy, ''if hadn't
any better reason than that for thanksgiv-
ing / shouldn't say much about it" And
then she went back to her pretty little sit
ting room, its blazing fire, and rugs and
rocking chair, its peacock feathers and
fruits, and the great fragrant lemon tree
that she had raised herself from seed. She
sat down before the fire and turned back
the skirt of her gown over her knees, show
ing, had there been any one to see, foot
still delicate and pretty as when Godfrey
Masters used to pull ON its overshoe
dear, dear, how many years ago!
"Yes," said Miss Trudy to herself,
81 should say l had some better
reasons for Thanksgiving than just that |
can give away squash and mince pies,
though that's good deal. I've reason to
thank the Lord for a whole procession of
blessings. Yes; and the first and cheapest
my own master! can turn round without
anybodys leave, and there's mo man here
cluttering up. If that isn't blessing, what
is? And then there's this hoRse. It's mine.
Aunt Gertrude left me trile of money for
my name, and put it out at interest, and
in twenty years it bought me this house,
this garden, this little orchard of
trees, this pasture, this COW, and
this grape vine. And I've got what l
had before to live on, and little for the
poor. / couldn't have done that il I'd mar
ried. Yes; | used to think it hard times
when Godfrey Masters led me such dance
making my heart beat so | was afraid he'd
see it, and then going away the Lord knows
where, without a word when I'd all but
made up my mind to marry him. But I'm
sure it was merciful escape. Yes, those
were cruel days-don't tell me about old
fool! There's no fool like a young fool
And that man made me suffer once. Yes,
he did. 1t gives me sinking now to re-
member the nights | used to watch for him
and he didn't come. never could bear to
look at the stars on a clear winters night
since Humph-yes-well we do outgrow
things, if we live long enough, and
that's reason for thanksgiving, I'm
sure. Yes, Pm an old maid, and I'm thank
full for it. I've often said | wouldn't marry
the best man living; wouldn't marry the
Pope of Rome himself, if he was to ask me.
I'm my own property, and everything about
me is my own, and l can give away dol
lar without asking. Jane can't Look at
Jane, she can't say her souls her own. And
yet when she was at home she used to rule
all the rest of us children with rod of iron.
And now she says to Jared, Dear, | think
I'll go down town to-day if you'll let me
have the horsep And he says: Can't have
the horse. What you want down town9
Always gadding. Place for a woman's
home-enough to do at home-stay at
homer And she's staid at home till every
things so blue she can't see it. People
thought Jane was doing great things when
she married Jaired-splendid farm, wood
lots, bank stock, a horse and chaise, and
a herd of Jerseys-and she's never had
a cent to spend from that day to this,
for he took what belonged to her and locked
1T up with his for the children; | don't sup
pose she could get it il she made a row; but
nobody wants hot water all the time; and
she wears Calico and l wear alpaca, and 1
don't know the day she's had new bonnet.
She says, 'Jaired, can you let me have a lit
tie money! I'm really in need, really in
need of some things, and And he says,
Should think you thought was made of
money. No, l can't. You're always in
need of some things And SO she is. And
he says, If gave you money every time
There amt the woman living can be trusted
with cent any more than ballot, and the
law puts them there along with old men
and idiots And she says, But, Jared, my
feet are most through to the ground.
You don't want your wife to go barefoot
Says he, They amt quite through, are
theya Well then, wait till they arer And
she says: i really cantgo to conference-or
meeting-or county fair-or whatever
with ut l have new bonnet. 1t really
isn't respectable And he says: Stay at
home, them And she does And she says:
Il do wish | had soft backed rocking chair
like Trudy's; this one does hurt my bones
So And he says: You're always wishing.
If wishes were horses beggars might ride.
This rocking chair was good enough for my
mother, and l guess it's good enough for
as that I'd get up in the night and fitch
change out of his pockets. And then should
be thief, and | shouldn't like to be thief.
But that's what a mean husband
makes of woman. And there's
another reason for thanksgiving;
ought by rights to get down ON my
knees and thank the Lord haven't got
such husband as Jane has And look at
Essie. Just the sweetest, softest-hearted
girl that ever lived, and she's never had any
children of her own except the little girl
that died, and she's longed for them and her
arms have ached for them, and she'd give
half her life for another-though that's not
saying much, for she don't value her life
a straw-and she's married to Harry Farms
worth. And his sister, widow with one
child-a little angel out of heaven, if ever
there was one-came home one day and
died. And there was the boy; and Harry
couldn't afford to board him out, and so
Essie had to take care of him. And she
did. And she grew to love him so that her
whole soul was bound up in him. And
Harry hated that boys father, and instead
of loving the child, used to be all
the time looking for the fathers
traits in him. And then he began to get
jealous of the child; not that he loved Essie
SO much--he never loved anybody but him.
self. And the more he saw Essie cared for
the child, the more he let it be seen he didn't
care for him. He didn't strike him-oh no,
Harry Farnsworth didn't strike him, but
his every look and word were blows for the
sensitive little creature He never praised
the poor dear for anything he did, let him
try ever so hard to please him, he never
smoothed his hair or patted his cheek, or
gave him kind word or any other word;
sometimes he'd look at him with his big eyes
so like a wolf that the boy would have to
run crying out of the room, and then he'd
sheer at him for bawl baby; because the
boy loved birds and flowers and all
outdoors, he called him a girl-baby;
and because he was delicate, and a
little thing made him feverSh he called